The music continued for a time with a tune composed by Marguerida to traditional dance steps. When it drew to a close and the assembly had finished applauding, Mikhail made a brief speech. He blended the customary festival wishes with his personal hopes for a new and brighter future for all Darkover, Domains and Dry Towns alike. Merach unbent enough to acknowledge his own round of welcoming applause.
“Now Dom Gareth has something to say to us all,” Mikhail concluded.
Gareth had been standing in the inner row of listeners, or, rather, the others had positioned themselves so as to not block his view. Now they withdrew even farther, so that he had no need to step forward.
“Kinsmen, nobles, Comynari,” he began with the time-honored greeting. Aware that he would never open a session of the Council in this manner, he added, “and honored friends. This is a season of rejoicing and a time of change for us all. A time to set aside old quarrels—” with a glance at Merach, who returned his gaze steadily “—and to renew old ties.” This time he looked meaningfully at his grandmother, standing beside her grown daughter. He thought she had never looked so happy.
“As for myself, I too must adapt to the new order. I can no longer continue as a useless parasite.”
“What did he say? A parasite?”
“Blessed Evanda, he’s gone off in his head again!”
A sound rippled through the room, the rustling of cloth and the murmur of voices. It fell away into expectant silence.
“I hereby abdicate my position as Heir to Elhalyn and to the throne of the Seven Domains.”
Gareth paused to let his meaning sink in. His mother smothered an outcry and clasped his father’s arm. His father looked as if he might protest but then thought better of it. Domenic startled visibly. Mikhail did not move, but his brows drew together. Marguerida, at her husband’s side, spoke a quiet word in his ear. Not all the reactions were negative, however. Her lips curving in understanding, Silvana inclined her head in a nod.
Gareth could not bring himself to look at Rahelle. He managed to hold himself upright as the furor died down.
Mikhail stirred. “Have you thought this through, Dom Gareth? Once taken, such a decision cannot be reversed.”
“Sir, I have. I have never been more sure of any course. Elhalyn will be in good hands with my brother Derek, although I pray it will not be for many years. As for the Comyn, Domenic will be a far better Regent than I ever would have been a king, and he deserves to know that his position will never be challenged.”
The words came more easily than any speech he’d ever made. If he had had any doubts about his decision, this moment of clarity erased them.
“And so,” he turned to encompass the entire room with his next words, “I take my leave of you. May the gods grant you all long life and happiness.”
Then, with the best speed still within the bounds of courtesy, he headed for the nearest exit. It opened not on the corridors leading to either the interior of the Castle or toward the main gate, but onto a veranda. Fortunately, everyone had come inside to hear the speeches, so he did not need to contend immediately with well-meaning but importunate questions.
Closing the door behind him, he stepped onto the veranda. The night was cooling rapidly, but the scent of the flowers in the adjacent courtyard perfumed the air. Overhead, three of the four moons swung serenely across a sea of glorious light. He inhaled, releasing a band of tension around his ribs.
It was done. For good or ill, as the saying went. He could never put this chick back into its egg. He was as free as any man might be, which was to say, not very.
The door opened. He turned, ready to make his excuses before he could be snared into a conversation. A slim, feminine figure slipped through. A whiff of spicy scent reached him.
Rahelle placed herself in front of him. By her posture, she wanted to shake him. “Are you insane or just delirious? Sunsick? In a trance? Whatever induced you give up your birthright?”
So she did not suspect.
He shrugged. “My life here was a cage, without purpose or meaning. At least, in Carthon I may set up a business and be of some use to someone. Importing lenses, you know.” He managed a smile.
“You are exactly as well-suited to trading as you are to—to flapping your arms and flying to Mormallor! You have strength. I have seen it! But it does not lie in the buying and selling of objects.” She paused, breathing hard. “You have lied to me before. Do not lie to me now. Tell me what is going on and why you have made this choice.”
Gareth shifted his gaze toward the festivities and then back to Rahelle. “If they knew of that strength—that Gift—then they would lock me up in a Tower and use it for their own purposes. Good purposes, honorable purposes, true, but I’ve seen enough of that life to know I do not belong there.” He fought the urge to pace up and down. “A short while ago, Dom Mikhail told me I’d been able accomplish something no one else had—the first step toward a lasting peace, a bridge between your people and mine. He was right.”
Her eyes widened but she said nothing.
“No Comyn or Dry Towns lord could have offered the hand of friendship,” he said without any hint of false modesty. “Only a man that neither side took seriously, a man with no kihar at stake, a man with nothing to lose, only he—I—could get both entrenched sides to listen. I have made a start. I mean to continue, and a bumbling, inconsequential lens merchant seems as good a pretext as any.”
“Surely you could work toward that goal and remain Prince of the Comyn, or whatever your title was.”
“True enough.” He paused, thinking that if he did not speak now, he would never have the courage. “But then—I would never be free to marry as I choose. It runs in the family. My father gave up being Heir to Hastur for that very reason.”
“To marry—” Her words skittered to a halt. He could almost hear her heart beating, wild and fast.
He went to her and took her hands, her unchained hands, in his. Raising them, he brushed her knuckles with his lips. “If you will have me.”
“If I will— You idiot!” Rahelle laced her fingers around his so tightly that he could not have pulled free even if he had wanted to.
She drew him close and kissed him. Her mouth was the softest, most intoxicating thing he had ever felt. The kiss went right down to the soles of his feet, sending fire through his belly and sweet melting rain to his heart. He wanted to dance, to weep, to fly. Somehow he got his hands free and wrapped his arms around her.
“After all,” she breathed against the side of his neck, “someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”
The Children of Kings Page 42